The Young Yogi: The Hot Dog Detective - A Denver Detective Cozy Mystery, #25

By Mathiya Adams

"The case is simple, Mac," said Jerry Baker. "My client, Brian Adams, is accused of killing someone."

 

"Who did he kill?" asked Mark MacFarland.

 

Jerry Baker, one of Denver's more prominent defense lawyers, looked over at MacFarland, a former Denver Police Department detective who had been drummed off the force. After several years living on the streets, in a near constant state of insobriety, MacFarland had finally gotten his act together. He set up a hot dog business, which he ran with mixed results for several years.

 

But now MacFarland was stepping out in a new direction. He and his former partner, Detective Cynthia Pierson, were trying to establish their own detective business.

 

"Oh, it's simple," said Baker. "He killed Brian Adams."

 

MacFarland shook his head. "Murder is not a joking matter, Jerry."

 

"This is no joke, Mac. And no, Brian didn't kill someone who simply had the same name as his. The man he is accused of killing really is supposed to be Brian Adams. I need you to find out who the real killer was."

 

Cynthia Pierson frowned. "It sounds like we have to figure out who the real Brian Adams really is."

 

Baker smiled. "Yeah, that would help too."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Misque Press
• Release date: Feb 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201977528

Book preview

PROLOGUE

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 15, 2215 HOURS

The room was dark. Heavy curtains cut off any light, moonlight or artificial light, which might filter in through the windows. The man closed the door behind him. No light came in from the hallway, since the man had disabled the lights in the narrow passage. He knew the layout of the room. A luggage rack to the left. A desk just beyond the rack. Across from the desk, the door to the bathroom, now closed, but no light peeking out from under the door. Past the bathroom should be two queen-sized beds. One of the beds, the far one, contained a sleeping woman and a small child. The nearer bed should contain the woman's husband.

With the room so dark, the shadows so deep, the intruder had to depend on his memory to be sure of who and what was where. He trusted his memory. He knew what he was doing.

He walked over to stand between the two beds, the woman and child to his left, the man to his right. He pulled the knife out of his belt and held it, point downwards, ready to strike.

The child stirred, causing the intruder to freeze. Was the child awake? Was the young boy staring at him?

Now the man wished that the curtains weren't so effective at cutting out the light. He had to know if the child was staring at him, staring into his very soul. He had to know that the child did not know the heart of the man holding the knife.

For if the child knew his heart, the child would be able to identify him.

Not that he feared the child informing the police about the man's identity. The child rarely spoke, though he did recite chants. No one at the Shamla Mountain Retreat had heard the child utter a single word that was not part of a Tibetan Buddhist chant. Not since the family had arrived at the retreat two weeks earlier, seeking sanctuary and protection.

For a moment, he considered killing the child. That would stop the child from identifying him. But how do you kill a god?

The intruder listened for any other signs of movement, but all he heard was the steady breathing of the woman, the whisper of breath from the child, and heavier breathing from the man.

Then the man's breathing changed, from a steady rhythm to halting snorts. The man stirred, turning over. He had been facing the wall to the bathroom, but now he was facing the other bed. The intruder glanced over at the windows, fearful that the room heater had disturbed the curtains, allowing a flicker of light to enter the room and reveal his presence.

All appeared as it had been. He turned towards the man, then raised his arm, preparing to plunge the knife into the man's body.

As his arm fell downwards, the man in the bed lunged towards the wall.

The intruder grunted in surprise as he missed his target. Despite the lack of light, he had an advantage over his intended victim. His vision had adapted to the dark room, whereas his victim was just waking up from sleep. But when his victim leaped across the bed to land on top of him, he began to suspect that his advantage was fleeting. The two men landed on the foot end of the other bed, waking up the woman and child. As the two occupants of the bed began to cry out in surprise and pain, the two men rolled off of the bed and onto the floor. The two men struggled until the intruder was finally able to jab his weapon into the other man's chest. The man cried out, as the intruder pulled the knife out and repeatedly slashed at his victim.

The woman continued screaming as the intruder leaped to his feet and raced for the door. He ran into the darkened hallway as guests from other rooms began to open the doors to their room to cautiously find out what the screaming was all about. The intruder ran to an emergency exit, just as the woman cried out, Someone's killed my husband! Someone's killed my husband!

The intruder disappeared into the night.

CHAPTER ONE

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 26, 0915 HOURS

Mark MacFarland went through the motions automatically, without much thought, without much interest. He tried not to think about how long it took him, about all the things that his partner -- former partner -- would have done. He simply included those actions into his robotic routine.

He got the product stored in the appropriate containers. He made sure he had an adequate supply of condiments. He checked the supply of packaged snack foods. He added ice to the ice chest, though with colder winter weather rapidly approaching, he didn't think he would need as much ice. He lugged the cans of Coca Cola, Pepsi, Mountain Dew, 7-Up, and other soft drinks out to the cart and stored them in their cabinet. He loaded all the trays and containers onto the cart, checked the latches and doors to make sure everything was sealed up. Finally, he checked the money tray to make sure he could handle making change.

Not that he expected many customers. It was the day after Christmas, after all, and most people, most sensible people, would be home enjoying the holiday week between Christmas and New Year's with their family.

As he expected Rufus Headley was doing.

His former partner.

His former friend.

Rufus, a Vietnam Veteran, had discovered that he had a family living in Houston, Texas. A family, if that's what you could call it. A son named Tran Van Ho and a supposed spouse -- was that what she was? Or was she just a mistress, a comfort girl that Rufus had met in Vietnam? -- named Nguyen Thi Thao who had fled to the US after the fall of Saigon. She supposedly had searched for Rufus, but had been unable to find him. All that according to Tran Van Ho. How trustworthy was his version of events?

They had gotten a DNA test, and much to MacFarland's consternation, the test had revealed that Tran was related to Rufus. MacFarland hadn't actually seen the test results. He had to take everything on faith. But with no warning, no warning whatsoever! Rufus got in his truck and drove south to Houston, Tran Van Ho at his side.

How long will you be gone? MacFarland had asked.

Don't know, said Rufus. Maybe a short time, maybe a long time. Can't predict much about time, you know.

Are you coming back? MacFarland had asked.

Don't know, said Rufus. Hard to tell about these things.

What about your girlfriend here in Denver, April Evans? Are you just leaving her?

I ain't leaving her. I'm jus' goin' to find out about things.

It was never easy to pin Rufus down on anything. The man had no plans, no future. The only future he had was the one MacFarland had given him, working with MacFarland at the hot dog cart. Working the cart by himself when MacFarland had to go off and solve some murder case the police couldn't solve.

Rufus had given all that up.

For what?

A family he hadn't seen in forty or fifty years?

It didn't make sense.

MacFarland set up his cart in its usual location, on the corner of Fourteenth and Elati in Downtown Denver. The cart was located across the street from the Lindsey-Flanigan Courthouse and the Van Cise-Simonet Detention Center...and around the corner from the Denver Police Administration Building, where MacFarland had worked for much of his police career. At least until he had been kicked off the force for his drinking problem.

He had beaten his drinking problem, but only with the help of Rufus Headley, who had watched over MacFarland during his most dire moments. If MacFarland hadn't met Rufus, he surely would have wasted his life. But with Rufus's help, MacFarland had gotten his life turned around, found a place to live (albeit with his former partner, Detective Cynthia Pierson), and established himself with a successful hot dog business.

Is the news true? asked a man coming up behind MacFarland.

MacFarland turned, immediately recognizing the gravelly voice of Lord Bozworth, the unofficial leader of Denver's homeless community. The old Jamaican was securely wrapped up in his heavy grey coat and his grey scarf that hid his grey beard. His bald head was protected by a grey knit cap. Lord Bozworth, you're downtown rather early in the day, aren't you?

I've heard rumors that Mister Headley has departed our milieu and even our very city. I felt compelled to determine the veracity of such heinous and dubious rumors.

MacFarland sighed deeply. I'm afraid the rumors are true, though I don't know how you could have heard about this. He only left for Texas a few days ago.

Good news travels slowly. Bad news travels at the speed of light. Is Mister Headley expected back any time soon?

MacFarland shrugged. I don't know, Lord Bozworth. You know Rufus. He is totally unpredictable.

Alas, that he is. He will be sorely missed by the community. He has always done so much for his former homeless compatriots. You know, the free food and drink when each of us was most in need.

MacFarland frowned, not sure that he liked being omitted from authorship of the free meals for the homeless policy, but he decided to say nothing. Then he thought of something he could say. In memory of Rufus, and to help ensure his rapid return, I will continue the practice of offering the homeless a free meal, whenever they need it.

Lord Bozworth nodded in agreement. I suppose that gesture of generosity is in play at this moment?

MacFarland cocked his head. Are you asking for a free meal, Lord Bozworth?

Nothing for myself, said Bozworth hurriedly. But as a token of good faith for the homeless community, a hot dog, some chips, and a cup of coffee would go a long way to demonstrate that Rufus's memory lives on in this most sanctified of all street corners.

MacFarland smiled. Of course, Your Lordship. Here's two hot dogs, in case you need to spread the good news further. And, as usual, condiments are up to you.

Thank you, young man. I'm glad to see that you're maintaining the legacy of munificence established by your worthy confederate.

CHAPTER TWO

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 26, 1035 HOURS

By mid-morning, the only customer, if that word could be legitimately applied, had been Lord Bozworth. MacFarland sat on one of two lawn chairs he had set up, though he realized that Rufus's empty chair was clearly superfluous. The thought of putting the chair away, or leaving it in the back of his truck, seemed like a betrayal.

When Cynthia Pierson plopped down on the chair next to him, MacFarland felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Her presence made up for the absence of his friend. On the other hand, he was surprised that she was here.

I thought you were on vacation, he said.

I am, said Pierson, leaning back in the chair. Can't you tell?

MacFarland nodded. She was wearing jeans, white fur boots, a dark blue winter coat, and a faux fur white hat. She didn't look anything like the tough cop she really was. He could tell. So why are you here?

I came to get some of my personal items from my desk.

MacFarland frowned, deep in thought. He had worked with Pierson for many years, had lived in her house for the past three or four years, yet he couldn't imagine her having any personal items, not even at home, least of all at work. Unless…

You had some of those women's erotica books at work? he asked. He had learned about Cynthia Pierson secret collection of saucy romance novels when he had to bring a couple of the novels to her when she was recuperating in a hospital. She had sworn him to secrecy about her fiction of choice, but sometimes he found it difficult to reconcile the tough cop image with the wilting damsel in distress theme of many of the novels.

Don't be an ass, she said. I had to get the files of cases I haven't been able to solve.

MacFarland looked around. Where are they? Can I see which ones?

I put the files in my car. I'm parked in the garage, and thought I'd come see how you're doing.

MacFarland was disappointed that he couldn't look over the files. He assumed he'd be able to review them when he got home in the evening. Why? he asked.

Why what?

Why did you pick up the unsolved murder files?

Pierson stared at him. Because I hate leaving things undone.

MacFarland nodded. He could understand the frustration of not solving a case. Of course, he couldn't think of very many cases that he hadn't been able to solve. Sure, there must have been a few. But very few. You took the case files?

Copies of the files, Mac. And any personal notes you or I made that weren't part of the official files.

Notes I made? Some of those cases I worked on?

Yeah, about half of them.

No, it can't be that many! I solved all my cases.

Pierson laughed. Come on, Mac. You know that there were a lot of cases we couldn't solve. Half of the cases are ones you worked on before we became partners.

And the other half are cases you didn't solve?

We didn't solve. Pierson laughed, emphasizing the word 'we'. It's not a contest, Mac. Sometimes we win, sometimes the bad guys win. When I leave the force, I just want a chance to balance things out.

How are you going to do that if you're quitting the police force?

Retiring. I prefer that term to quitting.

But you are leaving, right?

Of course, Mac. We're going to set up our business together, right? Or have you changed your mind? Gotten cold feet?

MacFarland couldn't help but think that his feet were cold. He needed warm, furry boots like Pierson wore. Or not like hers. Perhaps a bit more masculine. But certainly warmer. No, I'm not getting cold feet. I'm just wondering what you're doing.

It's simple. When we set up our company, we're going to need clients, right?

MacFarland nodded. Yes, but those are cold cases. Who is going to pay us for solving those murders?

Good question. Probably no one. But if we can solve any of these closed cases, we will gain in two ways. The first way, of course, is in gaining the satisfaction of having solved a cold case, an unsolved murder.

MacFarland nodded. And the second way?

Publicity. We will make sure that your friend at the TV station knows about us solving the crime. That will get us business. Lots of business.

You've got this all figured out, don't you?

Pierson patted MacFarland's cheek and stood up. Of course, partner. All we need to do is get you licensed, find an office to work out of, and get our business set up.

Yeah, sure. That's the plan.

You seem uncertain, said Pierson.

No, I'm not uncertain. That's what I want us to do. I'm just not sure how we'll pay for it while we're just starting out. Especially if all we do is cold cases. We need paying clients.

The clients who pay us won't be paying us to solve murders, Mac. We'll be working on cheating spouses, information searches, and finding missing persons. In fact, I doubt that we'll ever get a real murder case.

I've been getting a lot of them over the past several years.

That's because the DPD funnels those cases to you. I don't know if that is likely to continue in the future. Hence, the cold cases. We can work on them during our downtime. That will keep our skills honed and if we solve them, give us the publicity we need to stay in the public's eyes.

It makes sense, he said, trying to make his voice sound less dubious than he felt.

Of course it makes sense. You don't think I'd give up my job as a cop if I didn't have a plan, do you?

After Pierson had headed back into the parking garage, MacFarland sat there, staring into space. Not for the first time, he wondered exactly why Pierson was quitting the police force. It surely couldn't be true that all she really wanted was to be in business with him.

After all, he was good, but he wasn't that good, was he?

CHAPTER THREE

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 26, 1220 HOURS

MacFarland actually had three customers arrive at his cart during the lunch hour. Three customers who actually paid for their food!

And then his brother, Robert, strode up to the cart.

You are out here, said Robert, walking up to the cart and helping himself to a bratwurst.

MacFarland looked up from his chair, careful to hide his annoyance at his brother's audacity. Of course, I'm here. Why wouldn't I be here?

Robert shrugged, then plastered his brat with mustard and onions. These onions look a bit wilted. You should get a fresh onion. Oh, why you shouldn't be here. First, where's Rufus?

MacFarland scowled. You know he's in Texas. We told you that at Christmas dinner.

Oh, I know, I know. Jackie and I just thought that maybe he was back already.

Why would he be back? Rufus was going to spend Christmas with Tran and his mother. His girlfriend from Vietnam, when he served over there.

Yeah, his boom-boom girl, said Robert.

What? The term sounded derogatory, and MacFarland felt a rush of annoyance that his brother would say something negative about Rufus. I don't think that's appropriate.

Probably isn't, said Robert. It's something I found on the internet. You can find just about anything on the internet.

Well, don't use it again, snapped MacFarland. Rufus loved that woman. You know, it was very untypical that a regular grunt would form any kind of a long term relationship with a Vietnamese woman. That was something only desk jockeys and officers were able to do.

I don't really know much about what Rufus did in Vietnam.

MacFarland nodded. His friend hadn't spoken much about the time he spent in the war America lost. When many of the men and women who served in Vietnam returned to the United States, they were greeted with indifference at best and disdain at worst. Many of the returning veterans had problems finding jobs, suffered from mental health problems caused by a war unlike any the US had ever fought. And like many of his peers, Rufus Headley had fallen through the interstices of society's fabric. When he returned to the US, he had ended up on the streets, living in fear that Charlie, the GI's name for the Viet Cong, was pursuing him. Rufus was a man of mystery.

Robert burst into laughter, almost choking on his bratwurst. That's true, Mark. But, speaking of mystery, were you and Cynthia really serious about setting up your own detective agency?

Yes, of course we are. It's been a dream of ours for...for...a long time, I suppose. MacFarland was not really sure how long it had been a mutual dream of theirs. He wasn't even sure how long it had been his dream. He realized, with a sinking feeling, that he hadn't had any real goals, except to get through each day one at a time. That had been the way he had beaten his alcohol addiction, but living one day at a time wasn't the way to get ahead in the world. You had to have longer-term goals. A long time, he repeated.

Have you gotten an office? Do you have any clients? What are your prospects?

We just announced our plans yesterday, Robert! Give us some time. We don't have an office. I assume we'll work out of the house for a while, to keep expenses down, you know.

You can't have clients come to your house, said Robert. That's really not very professional.

Then we'd go meet the clients at their homes. Then he remembered what Pierson had said. Much of their business might consist of checking on cheating spouses. How could they go to the home of the person who suspected their spouse of cheating? No, that didn't make sense. We'll work it out. Besides, we might be working on cold cases for a while.

Cold cases?

Yeah, you know, unsolved crimes.

I know what a cold case is, Mark. I watch TV. I just don't know how you can be solving cold cases. Are the police going to hire you?

MacFarland nodded. That's a possibility. Sure, why not?

I think you're just making this up as you go along, said Robert.

No, I'm not. Okay, maybe I'm just thinking aloud.

You need a business plan.

Why? We're setting up a detective agency, not a business.

Robert snickered. Then you're setting up an agency that will go out of business in six months. Or whenever you run out of savings.

I don't even know what a business plan is.

I could write one for you and Cynthia, stated Robert.

What do you know about business?

I know a lot, said Robert. I took a couple of classes in business management in college. And I've set up a lot of businesses.

All of which failed, thought MacFarland. I don't know. I need to talk to Cyn about this. I suppose you'd want to be paid.

Robert smiled, as though the answer was obvious. You should also consider hiring me to work with you.

What? What could you do?

I could take care of the office -- when you get one -- while you and Cynthia are out on a case. Hell, I could even help you with some of your cases.

You don't know anything about police work, said MacFarland. Unless, of course, you took a couple of classes in college about police work.

Robert ignored MacFarland's snide tone. I could learn on the job. You could teach me, bro. You know, there are some real advantages to having a family business.

MacFarland shook his head. He could think of a lot more disadvantages of hiring Robert. Next, you'll be suggesting that we should hire Jacqueline to work in the office.

Robert nodded. "She used to work in political campaigns. She has a lot